


Come Again

by dracoqueen22



Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One)
Genre: Bondage, Established Relationship, M/M, Overstimulation, Sex Toys, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Valve Gape, large penetration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28966566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: To Bluestreak, Jazz is absolutely beautiful, inside and out.
Relationships: Bluestreak/Jazz (Transformers)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	Come Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CosmosKitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmosKitty/gifts).



Jazz is stunning when wrapped in ropes and lashed to their berth for Bluestreak to ravage as he pleases. The contrast of crimson lines to his black and white armor never fails to make Bluestreak hungry with want. He traces every careful knot with appreciation, fingers skimming the braided material.  
  
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands gliding over the polished plating of Jazz’s thighs, spread wide to accommodate Bluestreak between them, his entire array bare to Bluestreak’s gaze.  
  
“Am I?” Jazz gasps out the question, squirming in his bindings, causing the rope to creak. He doesn’t pull the quick-release, however, which proves he’s right where he wants to be.  
  
His thighs spread a bit wider. His valve lips flutter around the wide spike stretching him open, his anterior node flashing in testament to his rising arousal. Hunger pours from him in waves, buffeting against Bluestreak’s sensory panels.  
  
“Very much,” Bluestreak murmurs and press his thumb to the swollen nub, causing Jazz to shiver. “How many more overloads can I get out of you?”  
  
Jazz groans, his hips juttering up toward Bluestreak’s thumb. Lubricant puddles beneath his aft, the scent of his arousal thick and heavy. “You tryin’ to kill me?”  
  
Bluestreak chuckles and circles Jazz’s node, Jazz’s hips following the motion in what little twitches the ropes will allow. “I’ve heard that’s what the humans call it when they overload. Something about it being a little death.”  
  
He grasps the other end of the toy within Jazz and starts to pump his valve with it. Jazz groans, low and deep, his engine revving, the slick noises of copious amounts of lubricant rising between them. His visor flickers, his hands forming fists above the ropes wrapped around his wrists. He writhes on the berth, trapped in the bindings, but his field is thick and heavy with pleasure.  
  
Bluestreak licks his lips and thrusts into Jazz a little harder, Jazz’s valve stretched wide around the obscenely thick toy. As thick as Bluestreak’s fist it is, and ribbed in all the right places to touch those sensitive node clusters lining Jazz’s valve. There’s the slightest of bulges in Jazz’s lower abdomen, and the sight of it makes Bluestreak’s engine rev.  
  
“Blue,” Jazz moans in that tone that never fails to make a shiver race down Bluestreak’s spinal strut, going straight to his array.  
  
“More?” Bluestreak asks, feigning innocence as he thrusts the false spike in deep, grinding it heavily against Jazz’s ceiling node. He flick-flick-flicks Jazz’s anterior node as it flashes brightly at him.  
  
Jazz’s back arches, cables tensing in visible gaps through his armor, his vents stuttering. His hips twitch, grinding down, valve lips clutching hungrily around the toy.  
  
“Please,” Jazz gasps, blue static crawling over his frame.  
  
Bluestreak gnaws on the inside of his cheek, captivated by the sight. “Yes, dear,” he purrs and thrusts the spike harder and faster, his thumb pressing down in heavy circles on Jazz’s anterior node, just the way he knows his partner likes it.  
  
Jazz’s engine roars before he goes abruptly still, a desperate cry escaping his lips. He writhes in overload, valve clamping down on the toy. He’s beautiful, and Bluestreak can’t help shifting, crawling up to kiss Jazz through the tremors of his frame. His thumb continues to circle, gently extending the overload until Jazz whines against his mouth.  
  
“Too much?” Bluestreak asks.  
  
“Hard to say,” Jazz breathes. His hips dance, the tiniest rocks against Bluestreak’s hand. “Feels good, but so much, and I don’t want you to stop, but maybe… slow down?”  
  
“You’re starting to sound a bit like me,” Bluestreak teases. He sits back and strokes the stretch of Jazz’s valve lips around the massive toy. Lubricant seeps out, shiny and slick.  
  
Jazz undulates beneath his hand. “Hard to think with you looking at me like that.” He draws in a heavy vent, head tossed back into the pillows.  
  
“Fair,” Bluestreak murmurs. He grasps the end of the false spike and starts to pull it out, agonizingly slow, so it tastes every node cluster on its way out.  
  
Jazz moans, long and low and breathy, his field throbbing a heavy pulse of arousal. His biolights flicker, his valve clutching at the toy as if eager to keep it, until Bluestreak finally draws it free, setting the lubricant-soaked thing aside.  
  
Jazz’s valve rim flutters, but doesn’t contract. He’s so open now, gaping in the wake of the toy, and Bluestreak’s engine revs. He strokes Jazz’s rim, fingers sliding just along the inside of it, his own spike throbbing hard and hungry against his panel.  
  
“Primus, you’re beautiful,” Bluestreak says, stroking along Jazz’s valve lining, the rows of blinking nodes flashing prettily up at him. “I can see so much more of you like this, all wet and open for me, all of your lovely little sensors glowing and inviting me inside.”  
  
Jazz huffs a strangled laugh, his hips dancing once more, his valve fluttering against Bluestreak’s fingertips. “Now you sound like you.”  
  
Bluestreak licks his lips, his spike swelling until he can no longer contain it. His panel pops, and he groans, reaching down to stroke himself, spike throbbing in his grip. Need radiates through his frame, heat flushing his derma.  
  
“Think you can overload again?” he asks as he pets Jazz’s array, his fingers slick with lubricant. He drags them over Jazz’s anterior node, and caudal cluster and the rippling clench of the first ring of Jazz’s inner calipers.  
  
Jazz rocks against his hand, the ropes creaking. “Only if you do, too.”  
  
“I’m overloading no matter what,” Bluestreak says, shuffling up on his knees, striping his spike faster and faster, squeezing over the tip. He eats up the pretty picture of Jazz open and wet for him, stretched so wide Bluestreak can see into the depths of his valve, sensors blinking back at him in arrhythmic intervals.  
  
“Do it,” Jazz groans, his entire frame restlessly shifting, his valve leaking more lubricant as his anterior node throbs under Bluestreak’s thumb. “Come on, Blue. Overload for me. Show me how pretty I am.”  
  
Bluestreak’s vents catch, heat roaring through his lines. Jazz’s voice does things to him, especially when he turns to a purr like this, when he’s writhing beneath Bluestreak, all gorgeous lines and desperate pulls of his field. His valve visibly cycles on nothing, missing the girth of the large toy, his sensors flashing iridescent and beautiful.  
  
Bluestreak bites his lip as he overloads, his spike spurting pulse after pulse of transfluid, striping Jazz’s valve, splashing over that throbbing anterior node. He groans, frame shuddering, fingers slippery over Jazz’s swollen sensors, but he manages to pinch it roughly enough for Jazz to shout and buck, overloading again, valve clamping and gushing lubricant.  
  
Shaky, Bluestreak topples forward, catching himself with one hand, the other loosely wrapped around his spike, drawing out the pleasure. Jazz moans and shifts beneath him, wafting heat from every gap in his armor, drawing in ragged vents.  
  
Maybe there’s something to the truth about a ‘little death’ because Bluestreak’s feels wrung dry, exhausted, and he’s sure Jazz fares no better. It takes all he has to grasp the quick release, freeing Jazz’s hands, before he drags himself into reach for a messy kiss. Or really, Jazz yanks him into it, mouth sloppy and hot, his thighs wrapping around Bluestreak’s waist as he rocks up against him.  
  
“You can’t possibly want more,” Bluestreak gasps against his lips, despite being so comfortable in the cradle of Jazz’s thighs, twitching as his partially pressurized spike grinds over the slick, plush lips of Jazz’s valve. Why is it that Jazz is only energized by multiple overloads rather than exhausted?  
  
“Mebbe I just like being close to ya,” Jazz teases, scrubbing their cheeks together.  
  
“Could we get close after a shower?” Bluestreak asks. Also, he might have pulled the quick release, but Jazz is still wrapped up in the ropes. If he recharges in them, they’ll tangle in his joints, and Ratchet won’t be happy about having to help cut them free.  
  
Again.  
  
Jazz chuckles and steals his lips for another steamy kiss, his field a vibrant buzz of satisfaction. “Only if ya share it with me.”  
  
“Deal.” Bluestreak sits up, dragging Jazz with him, and starts tackling the ropes while Jazz proves less than helpful. He’s too busy running his fingers over his own valve, tracing the wide stretch of his rim.  
  
“Stop doing that,” Bluestreak grumbles, his spike giving a tired twitch at the sight. Why does Jazz have to be so damn sexy?  
  
Jazz grins and holds up his fingers, sticky with Bluestreak’s transfluid. “You made a mess.”  
  
“Stop distracting me, and we can go clean it up,” Bluestreak says.  
  
Jazz stretches his arms over his head, grinning like he has a secret. “Sure,” he says and leans in, stealing a kiss. “Love ya, Blue.”  
  
Bluestreak’s cheeks heat. He tosses two of the ropes over his shoulder, but uses the last one to tug Jazz close enough to share ventilations. “Love you, too,” he says. “Even when you annoy the Pit out of me.”  
  
Jazz laughs.  
  


***


End file.
